


Friesian, Duck, Ewe

by redscudery



Series: Amanuensis [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Birthday Smut, Clothing Kink, Comeplay, Epiphany, Leather Trousers, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Coital Cuddling, Regency, Schmoop, Semi-Public Sex, Sherlock's Birthday, Top John, Victorian, Younger Sherlock, er I mean, sentimental confessions, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5637121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is Lord John Watson's private secretary--and so much more. Perhaps the "so much more" explains why Sherlock has been able to convince Lord Watson to don leather trousers and deliver a mysterious Epiphany gift? It definitely explains their little interlude in the stables, though, that's for certain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friesian, Duck, Ewe

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to read "White Linen" for this to make sense, but you probably want to read "His Right Hand" first. If you don't want to do that, just know that Sherlock is John's private secretary because Mycroft made him do it but it turned out well for everyone involved. Of course, Sherlock is still mad that Mycroft is right.

One of the things that Sherlock liked about John was the questions. It made some things so much easier.

All it took on this particular day (the sixth of January, in fact) was for him to be sitting casually in the library when John came in that morning.

“Mm, beeswax,” John said, bending to kiss him. It was a measure of Sherlock’s love that he only made a small face at the obvious statement before kissing John back. Not that that was all he did. He tasted John’s lips, too, and smelled him: honey, poor-quality tea, a whiff of lanolin and a pungent undercurrent of pig manure.

“Been down to Widow Mitchell’s, have you?” he said, and waited for John’s smile. John didn’t disappoint; his eyes crinkled up in pleasure at Sherlock’s cleverness, and Sherlock luxuriated in it like a cat.

“Her sow’s been ill. She can’t do without it, so I went down to check.”

“Her new sheep are thriving, though, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” John said, “They’ll do well.”

“I did tell you the new feed would do the trick.”

“You did, but no need to get smart. What’s that?” he said, pointing to the table beside Sherlock. “It’s a wooden box, John,” Sherlock said, as if speaking to a very dull child.

“I’m aware of that,” John said, tartly, and Sherlock smiled again. He never tired of pushing John to the limits of patience: the consequent storm of anger and tenderness fed him like the opium of his youth.

He was playing a long game today, though, and so he capitulated.

“It’s a gift,” he said. “An Epiphany gift.”

“It’s beautiful workmanship,” John replied, “Not quite your usual thing, but I’m not surprised you have talents I don’t know about. The kerfing is beautiful--may I?” He took the box in his hands and opened it.

“Three chambers- lovely. And the beeswax does bring out the grain. Who’s it for?”

“It’s a surprise,” Sherlock said, grinning a trifle toothily despite himself. “Would you like to help me deliver it?”

Now all hung in the balance. He must not seem too eager.

“Tell me what goes in it,” John said, not without suspicion, “and I will.”

Ah. That circumspection, there. John would not hesitate to ride a wild horse, nor step into a fight, but he was a stickler for some laws of the land.

“Only some unusual agricultural samples,” Sherlock said, letting his face slip into a mask of scientific absorption.

“No body parts?”

“No body parts.”

“Where and when, then?” John’s face was once again smiling, indulgent, and Sherlock rewarded him with a like expression.

“This afternoon.” Sherlock said, letting his eyes sparkle tantalizingly, “But there is one condition.”

*           *           *

“Something,” John said, one change of clothing and one rather long carriage ride later, “is up. That box is too well wrapped for a hand delivery, and you’re much too smug.”

“Simply a precaution. The contents aren’t dangerous. And I look smug because that shirt suits you. If it weren’t for the urgency of this delivery I would have you right here in this carriage.”

It was true that John looked as good in the gardener’s loose, rough clothes as he had in his own beautifully tailored garments. The cream linen shirt hung off his straight, well-set shoulders and showed, in fleeting glimpses, the muscles of his back and chest. The brown leather trousers (these, though John didn’t know it, were not the gardener’s. Sherlock had let himself get carried away, just a touch, and had pinched them from Sam the footman, who fancied himself somewhat piratical when he was off duty) were worn and clinging, and the lacing at the crotch was none too loose, John being somewhat more gifted in the trousers than Sam would ever be.

Sherlock risked a kiss, smiling in unfeigned pleasure at the heat of John’s body against his and the brush of John’s soft mobile mouth against his own. John smiled under the caress, letting his own hands roam over Sherlock’s disguise.

Sherlock had been somewhat more circumspect in his own attire; he was wearing a shirt identical to John’s, but his own rough trousers were only cloth, and he wore a broad flat workingman’s cap over his curls. Still, John’s hands seemed to find the looseness of the trousers over Sherlock’s arse appealing--or at least unusual enough to warrant a thorough exploration.

“Wait now,” he said, reluctantly. “We’re almost there.”

“Your ‘there’ is not exactly anywhere I can imagine needing samples, Sherlock.”

“Don’t be a snob. Driver!” he yelled, “Stop at Glendinning Close.”  
The driver pulled up. Sherlock looked around, quickly--the street was unfashionable enough that few would notice the incongruity of two seeming stable lads getting out of a hackney, but it was better to be sure--and then jumped out. John followed, and they moved away from the conveyance.

“Now what?” John asked.

“Now we walk.”

Sherlock led John down two streets, then ducked into an alley.

“We must be careful, now, not to be seen,” he said, pointing to a very clean door. “I’m delivering here. See the carriage house, there?”

“I do,” said John in a covetous tone. “Look at those mangers. They’re the most beautifully-structured ones I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, hop in one, then. I’ll ring the bell, deliver the gift, and join you.”

John raised one sandy eyebrow but went, leaping gracefully into the (admittedly well-constructed, Sherlock thought sourly) manger.

Sherlock moved towards the door, avoiding the windows. He set the box on the very clean doorstep and rang the bell once, hard. He waited the space of two breaths, then rang it again before sprinting into the carriage house and joining John.

“You landed on me on purpose,” John huffed, elbowing him in the belly.

“I did not. Now observe.”

“You did,” John hissed, but he hauled himself up next to Sherlock and looked out. “Why aren’t we worried about being found by the groom?”

“All the servants are off today,” Sherlock whispered back “They’re always off on Wednesday afternoons.”

“What, all of them?”

“Unusual, I know, but we are dealing with no usual man.”

“Is he a spy?”

“Of a sort,” Sherlock said.

John was just opening his mouth to say “SHERLOCK” in a reproving tone when the door moved outward. There was a pause, though they saw nothing, and then a man stepped out.

John, mercifully, said nothing, but Sherlock could feel him quiver with suppressed emotion.

The man picked up the box and looked at it from all angles. Then he opened it.

Sherlock stopped breathing. He could hear John’s breath, short and sharp, next to him.

When the man saw the contents, his expression changed only slightly--one eyebrow winged up, and the corner of his lip twitched. He looked carefully down the alley, then scanned the yard, looking finally, hard, at the carriage house.

Then he dumped the contents of the box out on to the very clean doorstep. Three different kinds of animal shit hit the stone with three different “splotch” sounds.

“Childish,” said Mycroft Holmes, loudly enough for his voice to carry into the carriage house. He closed the box, tucked it under his arm, and went back inside, closing the door very gently after him.

 

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock could feel his laughter start to bubble up, but he held it, waiting.

“Did…”

Sherlock’s chest bucked with effort.

“Sherlock, did…. you….”

Sherlock twisted his lips and closed his eyes. The dam would break at any time.

“You built that beautiful box. You concocted this elaborate plan. _You made me wear leather pants._ And why?”  John hissed, “To send your brother a box of _shit_.”

Sherlock opened one eye, saw John’s incredulous, angry expression, and exploded. The first burst of laughter sent John rocking back six inches, but Sherlock was helpless now. He laughed and laughed, doubled up, his face hurting, for several minutes. Mycroft knew it was him, of course, but he hadn’t at first. He’d answered the door, after all, and been surprised when he opened the box. It was a much-needed victory.

“You are,” John said, as Sherlock’s laughter wound down, “an arsehole.”

“An unrepentant one,” Sherlock said, and rolled over so their noses were touching, “And so is Mycroft.”

“He sent me you, you know,” John said, and kissed him softly.

“Sent! As if I were a parcel.” Sherlock bit John’s lower lip.

“Egomaniac.”

“Martinet.’

Their lips met. Sherlock’s brain was quieter than usual, and he savoured the softness of John’s mouth and the heat of their bodies.  They kissed for a long time, rocking gently together, touching each other in the unfamiliar garments.

A sudden sound made them draw up and apart, but it was only a dog in the alley. Sherlock tried to draw John back down to him but instead John pinned him to the hay and began to kiss his way down his ribs. Sherlock writhed a little at the light touch, but let John continue, until his mouth was hovering over Sherlock’s flies. Then he begged.  
“John,” he said, and John’s mouth twitched.

“I shouldn’t do this,” John said. “You’re a holy terror. You deserve to be marched home with your cock aching.”

“But I won’t be.”

“But you won’t be.” John breathed on him and his hot breath penetrated the fabric. He undid the leather thong as slowly as he could, then--bastard,Sherlock thought--waited until a drop appeared at the head of Sherlock’s cock before touching it at all. I won’t, Sherlock thought, I won’t make a sound.

But he did, such a sound that John looked up in horror.

“D’you want to get us caught?”

“No. Please. No.” Sherlock muffled himself with his wrist, and a good thing, too, because as soon as he had John took the head into his mouth and sucked, flicking the frenulum with his tongue. His hands held Sherlock’s hips, immobilizing him so he couldn’t arch up for more pressure, and Sherlock groaned against his wrist again.

Only when Sherlock was emitting a constant low humming noise did John take him fully into his mouth, cupping Sherlock’s arse and holding him tight.

Sherlock tried to slow himself as he reached his climax--he felt it almost immediately--but John would not let him. Instead, he canted Sherlock back, popping his mouth off Sherlock’s cock and pulling up the rough linen of his labourer’s shirt just in time. Sherlock came, his semen splattering across the soft white of his belly. John grinned up at him.

“You know we could have accomplished this without even dressing up,” he said. “I think you just like a bit of rough.”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John grinned again.

“I didn’t know it was quite as easy as that to shut you up” he said, propping himself up on his elbows to admire the result of his work. Sherlock’s cheeks and chest were flushed,and his hair was as mad as the first time they had made love out by the pond. The pearly pools of spunk on his stomach gleamed in the soft half-light.

John sat back on his knees and trailed his finger through each pool, admiring. He wet one finger in Sherlock’s navel, then trailed it down Sherlock’s sensitive length, then down to the soft flesh behind Sherlock’s stones. Sherlock shifted his legs to open, and John wet his finger again. Instead of going straight to Sherlock’s arsehole, though, he touched each soft crease between thigh and belly, deeply sensitive.

“I could make you come again so soon,” he said. “Use this spunk here to ease you into me.”

“We did have to dress up,” Sherlock gasped. “Disguise. Hiding in plain sight.”

John’s gratified chuckle echoed through the carriage house.

“Maybe not.” he said “You sound like you’re not quite all there.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said.

“I’ll take your word for it.” John’s finger, slick with come, was at his arsehole now and Sherlock moved eagerly towards it. Then it was gone, and John’s hands were at his hips again, pulling his groin against the hard line in those leather trousers. “But I’m not quite, you understand.”

He unlaced his trousers and his thick cock sprung out.

“Please touch me, Sherlock,” he said, and Sherlock reached down.

“Touch me with your come,” John asked, and Sherlock took his hand back and rubbed his cooling stomach. John watched, his eyes not missing a single motion.

“Now,” he breathed, and Sherlock wrapped one hand around him. John’s hips swayed forward.

“Harder,” and Sherlock obliged, for a moment, then pulled John down towards him. He sighed as John’s cock brushed his, and warmed again the stickiness on his belly. He licked John’s lips, kissing him as John thrust against him urgently,the hot jet of John’s pleasure mingling with his own.

Sherlock reached down and ran his finger through it, then brought it to his lips. He licked it meditatively, and then again, then kissed John deeply. John sighed into his mouth, a last shudder taking him over, then broke the kiss and laid his head on Sherlock’s chest.

 

“So,” Sherlock asked, when John had recovered his breath, “Why didn’t I return home with an aching cock?”

“Oh,” John replied, “Well.”

“It’s not weakness, I know that.”

“True,” John was smug.

“What is it, then.”

“Well. It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

“Wait. How did you know that?”  
John grinned slyly.  
“You won’t like the answer.”

“Probably not. Tell me.”

“Mycroft told me.”

“That complete and utter shit.”

“In a manner of speaking,” John said, pointing to the doorstep, and then they were both laughing again. Sherlock laid his head on John’s shoulder and let himself go again. He could not remember ever having laughed so much, or so freely.

“Tell me though, Sherlock. What kind of manure was it?” John said, suddenly.

“Three kinds. Friesian. Muscovy Duck. Widow Mitchell’s new sheep.”

“But why those?”

“For the letters or morphemes: “f”, “uck”...”

“...and ‘ewe’”, John interrupted, starting to laugh again. “Sherlock, you are…”

“A genius?” Sherlock waited for the inevitable correction.

“Unparalleled.” John said, wheezing helplessly over Sherlock’s belly. Sherlock stroked his hair.

“That is a very neutral word, John.”

“Do you want me to say it, then?” John said, when his laughter had subsided. Sherlock thought about nodding, but did not. Quite.

“Sherlock, you came to me and saved me. You are what has kept me from becoming a crabbed, lonely old man, and I am grateful.” His eyes were clear as he spoke, so clear and piercing that Sherlock had to look away.

 

They arrived home without incident. Though Mycroft never did reply, an unsatisfactory if not unexpected state of affairs, Sherlock felt that he had, for once, gotten the best of things. Particularly as John kept the leather trousers.

  
(For the record, Mycroft, fertilized doorstep and impertinent brother notwithstanding, felt quite the same way. The box had no opinion, though it remained in a small locked safe in Mycroft’s dressing room.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank the tumblr anon that prompted me for this, thusly: "If you could somehow combine your love of period undergarments with comeplay, I mean that would really be the best thing."
> 
> Dear Anon, you were not wrong. Very much not wrong. Thank you. Please come forward so I can dedicate this fic to you and send you flowers.
> 
> I'm redscudery over on tumblr too, if you want to come and say hello.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Gifts Freely Given](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6545476) by [alexxphoenix42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42)




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